“Is Brian getting out here any time soon? I’m not opposed to staying up ‘til midnight, but I would like to get on with it,” Roger groaned, absentmindedly twirling his drumsticks. He had thrown himself onto the couch with Deacy while you and Freddie curled into two tie-dye beanbags thrown haphazardly about the room. Brian hadn’t left his room since you’d all gotten back to the flat, insisting that he’d be out in a few minutes each time one of you got up to ask.
“Brian!” Freddie called from the beanbag next to you, craning his neck to direct his voice in the direction of the guitarist’s locked door. “We’re still waiting on you, dear!”
No response.
The band collectively sighed, making no move to get up and check on him. After a few moments of semi-awkward silence while the three members of Queen attempted to contain their impatience, you unfurled yourself from the beanbag and walked over to Brian’s bedroom door. No one had tried to open the door yet, and when you turned the doorknob, you were vaguely unsurprised to find it unlocked after all.
You knocked quietly, not waiting for a response before nudging the door open and peeking into the room. The action reminded you of something your parents used to do whenever a pre-teenaged Y/n was stewing in her bedroom—it was something that you didn’t remember with much fondness, and you felt a little remorse for doing the same to the anxious guitarist.
He didn’t seem to realize your presence at first, hazel eyes locked on a large, dusty mirror against the wall. It took you longer than you’d like to admit to identify the look of hopeless disgust painted across the little you could see of his face. He was running a heavy brush through his curls, wincing painfully as they were straightened and leaving his dark hair a mess of frizz, severely damaging the delicate ringlets in the process. All of this was accompanied by sharp, jerky movements and tear-filled eyes, lips bitten so hard they were turning white under the constant pressure of Brian’s sharp canines. He looks the youngest you’d ever seen him—small and vulnerable and folded in on himself like he was trying to make himself even smaller. You’d been in that exact position often enough to recognize the exact emotion—the feeling of not being attractive enough, not talented enough, not good enough, even though the only judge of those qualities was yourself. The feeling that you didn’t belong anywhere, where you didn’t deserve to exist on the same planet as people who lived their lives to the best of their human capability.
You sighed audibly, softly closing the door and stepping towards the bed. Brian’s eyes snapped from the mirror to you, widening in something akin to embarrassment when he realized he’d been caught.
“Hey, Brian,” you said after a few moments of silence. It came out as little more than a whisper, but he winced as though you had shouted. You stayed quiet for a minute, half wanting to speak and half wanting to hug him and never let go. He looked away, eyes closing heavily as the brush falls to the floor with a loud thump.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally, voice shaking. You shook your head, trying to smile reassuringly. The Doctor was always better at comfort than you were.
“You don’t have to be sorry, Brian. It’s not your fault.”
“It is, though.” He risked a look up at you, and you noticed for the first time how red of his eyes were. Was he crying the whole time you were out in the living area, eating pizza and chatting with his bandmates? Was that what depression had driven him to?
